


the dresses and the endless toasts and the crying

by Eisoj5



Category: Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: F/F, Heist, Thieves Guild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 10:18:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8887117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisoj5/pseuds/Eisoj5
Summary: “She’s not my wife!” Velsa calls after him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [furiosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiosity/gifts).



*****

I: The Invitation

Velsa is in her garden, tending the few plants of her homeland that she’s managed to coax to life, when the messenger comes. He’s one of the street performers-turned-sometime-beggars who lurk about Abah’s Landing, hoping for odd jobs; not one of the more talented pickpockets that Zeira’s been hoping to recruit, but skilled enough in other ways to make the climb over her courtyard wall with little trouble. He sketches a graceful bow to her.

She finishes watering the gold kanet and frowns at its drooping leaves, before turning her full attention on him. “Let me guess,” Velsa says. “You’re hoping to steal one of Narahni’s sweet rolls.”

The Redguard—he’s younger than Tashmin or even Quen, probably, but with Men it’s always hard to tell—smiles and shakes his head. “Never, Lady Velsa,” he replies.

“‘Lady,’” Velsa scoffs. “Why did you children decide to start calling me that?” _I threw that all away when I fled,_  she thinks. _I had nothing, until Narahni came back to me—_

He looks around the courtyard—at her imported flowers, the fine furniture, the expensive wine sitting out half-forgotten, and spreads his hands in an elegant, pointed shrug.

 _Oh_.

“Very well,” she says gruffly. “What do you want?”

“The Guildmaster requests your presence immediately,” the Redguard says. “She wouldn’t say why,” he adds, “but I heard from a friend that someone came to the Guild who wasn’t supposed to.”

Velsa frowns. “What good does that do me?”

“Oh, don’t yell at him,” Narahni chides her, coming out of the house with a pie clasped in her paws, flour dusting her apron and juices smudged all over her paws. The sight is utterly adorable. “You shouldn’t terrify the messengers so.”

Velsa looks from Narahni to the messenger, who makes a half-hearted effort to look—well, a little concerned. She rolls her eyes, and says, dryly, “By Azura, am I as scary as all that?”

“You’re just grumpy,” the Redguard offers, and then he really does flinch when she turns her full glare on him.

She relents when Narahni swats at her hip, and tells him, “Go eat your pie.”

Narahni draws her aside as he settles himself at the table, the familiar aroma of venison, tomato, and Khajiit spices making Velsa’s own mouth water a little. “He is a talented acrobat,” Narahni murmurs in Velsa’s ear. “This one has seen him perform in the marketplace many times. But his purse is never full enough.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Velsa hisses back. “Zeira hired him to run this message, didn’t she?”

Narahni puts her paws on Velsa’s shoulders. “You have done many difficult things in your life,” she says. “You will think of something.” She kisses the tip of Velsa’s nose, presses a coin purse into her hands, and heads back inside.

Velsa lifts her chin and stares into the sun for a long moment. _I don’t deserve her, not a whit. Not after I left her for so long—she still thinks of me as the girl who wanted to free her . . ._ She sighs, remembering the freed Argonians and Khajiit who had bowed over her hands, weeping, on the docks, as she had tamped down her despair over losing Narahni in order to supplant their joy. Then, she goes to sit at the table with the Redguard. “All right, what’s your name?”

“I’m called Silasson, Lady Velsa,” he says, looking her in the eye instead of eyeing her purse.

 _Not one for this life, not really_ , she thinks, and asks, “Have you always been an acrobat?”

Silasson nods. “I was a favorite of Isobel Gurges, but that was many years ago, when I was a boy. When the Gurges fell from power, I—and many others—were left out on the street.”

Velsa gives him a sharp-eyed look. “Do you want to join the Guild?”

He considers his words—“I’d like the merchant lords not to throw us away in their power games,” Silasson says carefully. “Magnifica Falorah might have finally broken them for Taneth, but she’s been content to ignore all of us who were cast aside.”

“All of you,” Velsa echoes. She puts the purse down next to him, not even bothering to look inside at its contents.

Silasson dips his head in thanks and makes the purse vanish into his sleeves—the move is easy for her sharp eyes to follow, and a little showy. “Some lost _everything_ when the Gurges went down. It’s been the same every time a merchant lord falls; the next one to rise doesn’t take us in. I know _my_ troupe came apart when there was no more coin to keep us together or keep us whole. One bad fall’s all it takes to end up in the street.” He looks up again— “Lady Velsa, I don’t mean to keep you from the Guildmaster’s summons!”

Velsa waves it off. “Zeira’s accustomed to my ways. I’ll arrive when I’m ready.”

“I’d better go, myself,” Silasson says, tilting his head back to sight the position of the sun in the sky. He gets to his feet and crosses the courtyard to the outer wall. “Thank your lady wife for the venison pie—it’s the best in Tamriel!”

“She’s not my wife!” Velsa calls after him, but he’s already up the wall and gone.

*****

“I’m getting married,” Magnifica Falorah says. She’s reclining in Zeira’s customary chair like _she_ runs the Guild, turning her left hand this way and that to catch the candlelight on the gold of her many rings. _It’s like catnip to us,_ Velsa thinks, and has to hide a snort at the thought.

“I’ll be wedding Prince Azah, of Sentinel, and—” Falorah catches the skeptical looks Velsa and Walks-Softly are casting at each other—“ _yes_ , I’m certain he is who he claims to be, and he’s coming to Hew’s Bane in a fortnight.” Her smile could light the whole cistern. “I want you to steal his bride gifts.”

Velsa’s laugh _does_ ring out at that— _irony of ironies_. Zeira, who’d stood silently at the planning table as Falorah spoke, rolling a septim through her fingers, shakes her head. “Magnifica—you cannot possibly be serious.”

Falorah’s lovely mouth turns down at the corners, and her fancy silk dress rustles as she folds her arms, a little petulantly. “It is _nothing_ like Nicolas’ theft of my dowry,” she says. “I merely wish to ascertain how a husband of mine will handle living in Hew’s Bane, with all its . . . challenges.”

“How he’ll handle _us_ , you mean,” Velsa observes sardonically. “I foresee some unpleasant evenings behind bars.” Quen’s eyes go wide—wider—at that, and Walks-Softly shivers, elegantly, a ripple going all the way down his tail.

“I promise no harm will come to you,” Falorah says. “I will take full responsibility for the theft, once I know the man.”

“And you hope the Prince of Sentinel will be, what, charmed by his clever bride?” Velsa asks, her tone sharpening. “Find your little trick the sort of diversion that noble lords like to play on each other?”

“Velsa,” Zeira says, quellingly. Velsa subsides, but her lips thin into a dark line. _Foolish woman, and are we the more fooled? Silasson and his lot will receive little help from her._

“Marrying Azah would strengthen us against any intrigues from Taneth,” Falorah offers, only fueling Velsa’s concern. “I would be able to provide you with safe passage to Sentinel to expand the Guild. And—a cut of his bride gifts, of course.”

Zeira nods; though her face is as impassive as Velsa has ever seen it, her dark eyes take on a familiar sparkle at the prospect of profit. “We will need access to the Palace,” she says.

“Certainly, though I cannot allow you to walk about _quite_ so freely,” Falorah replies. “Perhaps the gambit you tried at my first wedding? A guest or two?” She looks around the shadowed cistern— “Where is your newest member, the one who caused the Iron Wheel such trouble?”

“Sent on a task for the Guild,” Walks-Softly tells her. “None of your concern.” His teeth are very white.

Falorah is only a little perturbed at the sight of his grin, looking away with only the smallest of flinches. “I will have invitations for the Guildmaster and Lady Velsa drawn up and sent over. I trust you will _acquire_ proper attire?”

“You may leave the planning to us,” Zeira says.

“I _may_ come again to confer about your plans before the wedding,” Falorah corrects her, frost creeping into her tone.

Zeira inclines her head humbly—or what passes for humble, from her. “Of course, Magnifica. Quen, if you would show our guest back out?”

After Quen has led Falorah away, Zeira reclaims her chair and turns to Velsa, who’s already frowning.

“I don’t like it,” she says.

“I didn’t think you would,” Zeira tells her, with a smile. “But I believe our luck has changed in the past few months. Perhaps this is the gods showing us their favor.” Her eyes turn upwards towards the statue of the Lady in the center of the cistern. As they each follow her gaze, the sun breaks through the clouds high above, casting a beam of light on the Lady’s worn stone face.

Velsa rolls her own eyes. “I’d rather the Night Mother kept her favors.” Walks-Softly hisses disapproval, but stays quiet.

“She’s not the Night—” Zeira breaks off. “I don’t want to have this fight again.”

“What fight?” Quen asks, leaping lightly up the stairs to rejoin them. “Is this about the Sea Queen?”

“It’s _nothing_ ,” Zeira barks, then resumes her usual tone. “I think we should take the job.” She raises an eyebrow at Velsa.

 _Work the angles. . ._ Velsa purses her lips again. “We might be able to turn this to our advantage in more ways than one,” she allows, the shadows of a scheme starting to take form in her thoughts; she looks at Zeira and sees the same thoughts on her Guildmaster’s face. 

Quen claps her hands. “I want to go to the Palace! I didn’t get to go last time.”

“I, too,” Walks-Softly says.

“Well, we can’t _all_ go,” Velsa points out.

Zeira stands up and starts clearing a space on their planning table. Quen flinches as a few stray septims roll off the edge, and contorts herself to catch them before they disappear into any lurking thief’s hands. “I think we can. But there’s a catch.” Zeira looks around the table at each of them. “Magnifica Falorah’s _seen_ all of you before.”

“So?” Walks-Softly says. “I was in armor, I can dissemble with the best of them—”

The Guildmaster shakes her head as she digs through their papers and scrolls; it’s a deliberately messy-looking assortment of dossiers, the disarray almost as good as any code system or trap for keeping low-level members out of their plans. “Falorah’s more clever than you think, my friend; she would not have risen high enough to attract the notice of Prince Azah if she were not, Nicolas’ deception notwithstanding. No, we’ll need some outside help on this one, because I intend to send a message.” She smiles tightly to herself as she pulls out a roll of paper bound with a gold thread.

Walks-Softly frowns at her. “And what is that?”

“The Thieves Guild is _not_ Falorah’s to do with as she pleases,” Zeira says, and unrolls their map of Hubalajad Palace with a flourish. “Let’s go steal a wedding.”

*****

An afternoon of plotting later, Velsa is sitting with Narahni on the edge of one of the flower beds in her courtyard, plucking at the leaves of her stoneflower plant. It’s doing well despite the arid conditions, blue-gray buds nodding heavily at the ends of their stalks _._

“You want this one to help you on a heist,” Narahni says.

“Yes.” She wraps a hand around Narahni’s wrist, thumb stroking her fur. “I’ve asked Silasson to help out as well.”

“You have found a new member for the guild already, no?” Narahni asks. “She is very talented, to find this one and Tashmin and bring our family together at last.” She rests her chin gently on Velsa’s shoulder; in the shadowed cool of the courtyard, Narahni’s breath is warm against Velsa’s ear and neck.

“The girl could’ve been much worse,” Velsa concedes. “And at least she isn’t as green as Quen.”

“Quen is a dear. She always remembers to bring this one sweets.”

Velsa _hmphs_. “She’s turning into a skooma dealer, you mean.”

“Nothing so wicked as that,” Narahni says, a rumble of a laugh purring through her voice. “But why do you need Narahni’s assistance? This one is no good at sneaking and hiding.”

Velsa smiles and turns her face up to Narahni’s, admiring the way the late afternoon sun casts halos around her pale fur. “You won’t need to do any of that, my love,” she says. “We want you to cater the wedding.”

Narahni draws back, her ears flattening. “In a _fortnight?”_

“Your pies are the best in all of Tamriel,” Velsa says, catching hold of her paws as she repeats Silasson’s words. “Our rogues’ gallery of visitors lately attests to that.”

“Velsa,” Narahni hisses softly. “This is no small task!”

Velsa goes on, “And all we’d need is for you to put a few drops of a potion in the Prince’s breakfast, the day of the wedding.”

“Oh, _that’s_ all,” Narahni murmurs. “Cater an entire wedding feast and poison a Prince.”

“I said _potion_ ,” Velsa points out, amused at the way Narahni’s picked up some of her own sarcasm. “Just a little something to distract him while we carry out our plans. And you’ll get to see the Palace.”

Narahni huffs through her whiskers. “And Velsa will wear a fancy dress and mingle with beautiful guests while this one works her fingers to the bone?”

“Nonsense,” Velsa says. “I _never_ wear fancy dresses.” She leans in to plant a kiss on Narahni’s velvety nose as the Khajiit grumbles, and adds, “Of course not, dear heart. You will be _in charge_ of the staff; you’ve always wanted to run your own kitchen, ever since I’ve known you. And as the one running the show, you can wear whatever clothes you like.”

“How is this one going to be hired as the head caterer to the wedding of the year?” Narahni asks, practical as ever.

“Oh, that’s simple.” Velsa smirks. “Have you ever heard of the Gourmet?”

*****

_“The Gourmet’s identity is unknown; they wear hooded robes and speak to no one, often not even the cooks who assist them. Either that, or the world of cuisine is even more secretive than ours.”_

The moons are low on the horizon and all the constellations bright, a night later, as an Imperial ship glides slowly into the harbor of Hew’s Bane.

“Velsa promised this one would not have to sneak,” Narahni whispers, unhappily, as Quen rows their boat from their hiding place into its wake, so close that Velsa could reach up and touch the ship’s hull. Narahni’s fur is stiff from the sea spray, but she keeps turning her head into the breeze to smell the salt.

“You won’t,” Velsa says, again, patting her knee. “Just climb a little, and you’re good at that.”

Quen shushes them and leaps quietly up along the wooden hull, scurrying as well as a lizard from porthole to porthole, until she finds their target. Then she disappears inside—Velsa counts two dozen heartbeats before the Bosmer sticks her head out the porthole again and beckons. Velsa rows them into position just under the porthole and Quen throws down a rope for Narahni.

“A kiss for luck?” Velsa offers playfully, admiring the way the stars shine in Narahni’s eyes.

“This one thinks that Velsa thinks this is all a game,” Narahni grumbles, but acquiesces, rubbing her nose against Velsa’s.

“You’ll be _great_ , my dear,” Velsa says, “See you in a fortnight!” And then Narahni is climbing up and away into the ship.

Quen climbs down; Velsa is startled to see the half-naked and unconscious Nord draped over her shoulder. _We’re all more than we appear,_ she reminds herself, even as she marvels at Quen’s hidden strength—and the Nord’s completely unremarkable visage.

The Bosmer drops her burden into the bottom of the boat and sits down with a quiet huff. “Okay, let’s go!” she says, grinning.

Narahni, already hooded, but her shape always recognizable to Velsa’s eyes, blows a kiss out the porthole to her. She returns it, and, for the first time, thinks, _I might actually pull this off_.

*****

Word spreads quickly that the Gourmet has arrived to cater Magnifica Falorah’s wedding, and if it hadn’t already been the talk of the city before, now every merchant, lord or not, is desperate for an invitation. Velsa, on her way to the Guild from her villa, overhears snippets of conversation from every corner—from guards with their ever-bright lanterns gossiping as they make their rounds, to the beggars who can barely be heard over the fountain.

She smirks to herself. _Soon they’ll have even more to talk about_.

“I wish I could go see Mother,” Tashmin says morosely, sprawled on a plush, recently re-upholstered velvet sofa in the Guild. “I don’t like that you all—” he waves a paw around, and Velsa wonders if he’s drunk again— “sent her in _there_ without backup.”

Silver-Claws pats Tashmin’s shoulder sympathetically with a ink-stained paw and raises his eyebrows at Velsa, who shrugs, feigning her own surety. “Your mother knows what she’s doing.”

Zeira looks at them askance. “Quen’s taking in Velsa’s friend Silasson in this afternoon,” she reminds them. “And Walks-Softly is doing his part.”

“Falorah knows Quen’s face,” Velsa reminds Zeira in an undertone, as Tashmin sighs and gets up for another attempt at chatting up Kari.

“So she’ll know we’re on the job,” Zeira answers. “Just like we want.”

Silver-Claws says, “You said it yourself, Falorah is more clever than we think. You’re certain she won’t know what we’re really planning to pull off?”

“If she does, I’d be _very_ surprised,” Zeira replies.

“And we’ll all be in jail,” Velsa mutters. But she doesn’t put quite the usual amount of venom into her tone. _We_ have to _pull this off. For Silasson—for Narahni._

Zeira looks around at the team. “Everyone pack an extra lockpick?”

*****

II: The Wedding

The first things Velsa sees when she and Zeira enter Hubalajad Palace—official guests this time, though the blue-and-silver-clad Iron Wheel guard at the gate still gives Zeira a wary look—are the flowers. Not only floating in the pools and fountains or as centerpieces, as with her previous visit, they are everywhere she turns, spiralling up columns and carpeting the marble floor in all shades of the rainbow, perfuming the air with scents both familiar and not. It’s a visual cacophony, though somehow there’s a kind of elegance in the floral mix.

_And, most importantly, two blooms in particular . . ._

Velsa lets the briefest of smiles touch her lips as she sees the Bosmer responsible for the arrangements scampers up over one of the gazebos herself, trailing a rather excessive garland in bright pinks and oranges. Below her, Silasson balances deftly on the gazebo’s rail, though he seems hampered by an armload of greenery.

“Should we congratulate Quen on her success as flower girl?” Zeira wonders.

“I fear words alone will not convey the depth of my feeling,” Velsa says, dryly, as they walk over in Quen’s direction, skirting some clusters of finely-dressed wedding guests who nod in vague recognition as they pass. Quen dangles, head down, from the roof of the gazebo as they draw near, and a bugloss flower falls out of her hair with the motion. She frowns after it and replaces it with a wilting columbine. “Pretty dresses,” she says, sounding a little jealous, and then, “The Iron Wheel is here!”

Zeira shakes her head. “I was expecting Falorah to put on such a show. Stick to the plan.”

“Yes, Guildmaster,” Quen replies, and withdraws back overhead.

“Ready?” Zeira asks Velsa.

Velsa draws a steadying breath, and turns to her. “It hasn’t always been easy for you, working with me,” she says.

“What would make you say something like that?” Zeira says, lightly, tilting her head in feigned confusion.

“I—shut up for a second and listen,” Velsa retorts. Zeira lifts her hand in acquiescence, and Velsa continues, “I wanted to thank you for doing this—”

Zeira laughs. “ _Definitely_ don’t thank me now, old friend; we’ve barely begun. And _most_ of this was your idea.” She claps Velsa on the shoulder, though, smiling. “It is my pleasure—and our profit.”

Velsa snorts. “We shall see.”

“You’d better get going,” Zeira says, curtailing any further attempts on Velsa’s part to say something gruffly heartfelt. “Narahni’s probably anxious to see you.”

She gives the Guildmaster a curt nod and steps away, plucking a gold kanet flower from one of Quen’s excessive bouquets and tucking it into her hair. She passes a beleaguered server on one knee, and from the silver platter he balances on his head, she scoops up a goblet, tossing its contents into the nearby fountain when no one is looking. A turn, and then another, around the glimmering pool, smiling and nodding at guests Velsa doesn’t know and a few she does, and she’s picked out a handful of stoneflower petals, crushing them into the goblet.

At the gazebo, Silasson, who’s joined Quen on the roof, takes a wrong step all of a sudden, and tumbles awkwardly to the ground, crying out. _A little showy_ , Velsa thinks, but it’s done the job—the Iron Wheel guard at the heavy doors to the Palace is looking over. Zeira beckons him closer, her face drawn in concern, and that’s Velsa’s cue to slip inside.

The map of Hubalajad Palace is burned into her memory, and it’s but a minute before Velsa is leaning up against the kitchen doorway, gazing around at the bustle and fire and wine. She smirks at the sight of Narahni, no longer hooded nor silent, gently but firmly directing her staff in plating another round of hors d'oeuvres.

“Can’t a lady find something to eat around here?” Velsa says.

Narahni turns at the sound of her voice, but keeps her calm. She gestures the staff to take the trays of food out, and once they’ve departed, draws Velsa away from the door and kisses her cheeks. “Velsa! This one must thank you—you have made Narahni a very happy Khajiit, to be able to cook the most delightful food for so many people.”

“You had a good time?” Velsa asks.

“ _Wonderful_ , although it would have been better if this one could have been with Velsa, sleeping in the Palace’s fine beds and enjoying Magnifica’s wines…” Narahni goes a little soft-eyed.

“Perhaps there will be time to slip away and do those things,” Velsa says, kissing her on the nose.

“Ah, but first?” Narahni points to the goblet in Velsa’s hand. “ _Potion_ , not poison, yes?”

Velsa sets it down on the counter and takes the gold kanet flower out of her hair. “I need to make it fresh. Best if he drinks it in his wine before an hour’s past.”

Narahni nods and goes to pull an appropriate vintage from the expansive selection, pours the glass, then leans against the counter to watch Velsa make the potion. “It will not truly harm Prince Azah?” Narahni asks. “He has been properly deferent to Narahni as the Gourmet, and kind to the kitchen staff, not yelling when mistakes are made. Magnifica Falorah picked a nice man, this time.”

“He will not be harmed,” Velsa assures her, and gives the mixture a final stir before decanting it into the wine. “It will only throw him off-balance, for a short while.” She cleans up the remaining ingredients, and smiles at Narahni. “You’ll have someone take this to him?”

“Of course,” Narahni says. “He trusts the Gourmet who has made him so many late-night pies! But what will Velsa be doing?”

Velsa smiles and withdraws a separate alchemy bottle from a secret pocket in her skirts. “I’m going to watch.”

*****

Invisible—the potion is the strongest Velsa’s ever made; collecting the nirnroot for it had taken months—she follows close on the servant’s heels as the little Argonian takes the wine to Prince Azah’s chambers. He’s a handsome Redguard, a shade taller than Falorah, already dressed in his wedding garments. His chambers’ expansive windows are thankfully open to the air, and the moons are just visible over the rooftops of Abah’s Landing.

He sips the wine—“Ah, the 580. Please convey my thanks to the Gourmet,” he says, and the little Argonian servant bows her way back out of the room. Velsa prowls around for a moment, looking at his bride gifts—among them are the _finest_ pieces of worked gold jewelry she’s seen in a long while, and she has to restrain herself from stroking the neatly-folded silks. Then she settles silently on the couch to watch him take the glass to his desk, and as he works through his correspondence—Velsa is thoroughly disappointed there are no secrets to be found therein—slowly drains the wine.

At the window, Velsa sees Quen’s upside-down visage again, and holds up a finger to indicate _wait_ —then shakes her head to herself, because she is, of course, still invisible. Quen pulls back up and disappears.

Half an hour later, another servant, a Redguard this time, knocks on his door. “It is nearly time, Prince Azah; you must prepare for the wedding.” Azah waves acknowledgement, and gets up to attend to his toilet.

He immediately nicks himself shaving, and curses softly.

Then Azah drops a ring, which rolls away and into a crack in the floorboards. He curses again, slightly louder. He laughs at himself in the mirror. “Nervous? It’s a political marriage—not like she’s coming home to Sentinel with me, not until I’m King, and that’ll be plenty of time to get to know each other.”

He takes a slightly shaky breath, and reaches for the wine glass again, spilling it on himself. “By the blade!”

Azah dabs futilely at the stain on his tunic, crossing the room and disappearing behind a painted screen to find a replacement.

Quen jumps lightly into the room and Velsa starts to beckon her over before _again_ remembering her invisibility. Instead, she coughs, very lightly, and the Bosmer’s head whips around to track it.

“Velsa?” she whispers, coming towards her. Velsa reaches out and taps her on the arm affirmatively.

“I brought Silasson to help—” and indeed, the acrobat is climbing carefully over the windowsill as well. Between the three of them, they make quick work of the pile of presents, and Quen and Silasson are absconding with their ill-gotten gains back out the window before Prince Azah has even finished lacing his second-best tunic.

Azah comes around the side of the painted screen and, to his credit, instantly observes that the bride gifts are gone.

“ _Oh_ , dragon’s teeth,” he snaps, and rushes to look out the window, tripping over a corner of the rug on his way. Nothing to see, Azah storms into the corridor, Velsa his silent shadow.

“You! Guard. I want the Palace searched for anyone without an invitation.” The Iron Wheel guard salutes and promptly runs off in the opposite direction. Azah paces back and forth in the hall for a moment, then seems to make up his mind and marches towards Magnifica Falorah’s rooms.

 _This ought to be interesting_ , Velsa thinks, and trails after him again. But instead of the scene Velsa’s expecting, all doors thrown open and servants scattering in fear, Azah simply knocks at the Magnifica’s chambers.

“Prince Azah,” Falorah greets him, clad in a dressing gown instead of the wedding dress Velsa’s seen before. “Is something the matter?” She lets him in, chancing a look around the seemingly empty corridor—Velsa ducks in under her arm—before closing the door behind him.

“I’ve ordered your Iron Wheel to search for anyone without an invitation,” Azah says, without preamble. “The bride gifts I brought—all this way from Sentinel without incident—have gone missing.”

Falorah’s face wears a look of concern, but she walks away from him, into one of her many closets, presumably to dress. “Missing, Prince Azah?”

“Stolen.” He follows her into the closet, though Velsa appreciates that he doesn’t crowd the Magnifica, nor block her way out past him. “Do you think the Thieves Guild could be behind this?”

Falorah widens her eyes. “Oh, dear. Well, they’ve never liked me very much, ever since I tried to have them all killed,” she says, looking downcast, before lifting her gaze back up to his. “I hope _you’ve_ grown to like me, a little, over the last fortnight?”

Velsa stifles a snort.

Azah steps closer to Falorah, one hand tentatively reaching towards her. That gives Velsa the perfect opportunity to swing the closet door shut and lock it, wedging a chair under the doorknob for good measure.

Their muffled cries and banging on the door follow her out through Falorah’s chambers and into the hall, where she finally gives into the laughter that’s been bubbling up ever since Azah dropped his ring.

“Velsa.”

She turns to see Zeira leaning up against the corridor wall. “Is that potion of yours going to wear off soon? I doubt Narahni would like to come home to an empty-seeming house.”

“You should know, talking to the air is not a good sign,” she retorts, lifting a hand to look through it at the Guildmaster.

Zeira raises an eyebrow in her general direction.

“Oh, very well,” Velsa says, and casts a small healing spell on herself, removing the invisibility. “How goes the plan?”

“Walks-Softly let in _our_ guests,” Zeira reports. “The Iron Wheel’s overwhelmed with all the people who seem to have the correct invitations, even if they just saw them begging in the street.” She smiles. “Silver-Claws, Quen and Silasson are handing out the, ah, party favors.”

“Falorah will have to deal with them now, even if she could pretend not to see them before,” Velsa says. “What’s left?”

Zeira’s smile broadens. “Why, the best part,” she says. “Go on, we’ll be waiting!”

*****

The kitchen is cleared, the food all sent out to the feasting hall to await the married couple, and in the middle of it, alone and sipping a glass of the same fine wine Azah had, is Narahni.

Velsa’s breath catches at the sight of her; she is _beautiful_ , out of the robes she’d worn as the Gourmet and into a gown whose elegance more than matches Velsa’s own. The braids in her mane are woven with spun-gold threads, and her fur has been brushed so that it fairly glows. Velsa smiles, crossing the kitchen to Narahni and clasping one of her paws. “Come, my dear, we haven’t much time.”

“For what?” Narahni hurries after her through the convoluted corridors of the palace until they’re standing on the balcony in the Great Hall—“Velsa! What are all these people doing here?” Narahni gazes, stunned, over the balustrade at the throng below; there are merchant lords, citizens, street performers—nearly all of them cheering her name when they recognize her familiar face.

“Well, I invited them to a wedding,” Zeira says, strolling up behind them on the balcony, grinning widely.

Tashmin, beaming shyly at his mother, and Quen and Silasson follow closely on her heels. Walks-Softly moves into position on one side of the balcony at the top of the stairs, and Silver-Claws the other, though he wears formal robes instead of the Iron Wheel armor of his Argonian counterpart. Silasson vaults off the balcony into the crowd, rolls to his feet, and executes a grand sweeping bow up to them.

“Narahni, dear, if you’ll just step over here, please?” Zeira takes Narahni’s paw and presses a gold ring into it as she moves the Khajiit into the right place to stand.

Narahni gapes at the Guildmaster, and Velsa’s grin widens as she opens her hand to show the matching ring in her own palm. “I thought I should make an honest Khajiit out of you at last.”

“This one has been tricked!” Narahni sputters. “All this time, Velsa has been planning _this?_ ”

“Well, the Guild—” Velsa starts to explain—

“What is _going on here?_ ” Magnifica Falorah’s beautiful hair looks somewhat disheveled, and her face is flushed, as she pushes past Silver-Claws with a bemused and equally mussed Prince Azah in her wake. “ _Zeira!_ Explain this!” Falorah demands. “What are all these people doing in the Palace?”

Velsa turns to face them. “We promised them the generosity of Magnifica Falorah on this blessed day,” she says, her grin going wicked.

Falorah’s face is instantly regally impassive. “Is that so?”

“Well . . . we may have relied upon the generous spirit of you _and_ your betrothed, to be honest,” Zeira notes. Below, one or two of the fan dancers drape the stolen silks over their shoulders enticingly, and some of the beggars wave newly beringed hands or paws up at the scene playing out on the balcony.

Prince Azah turns a keen stare on her. “ _You_ arranged all of this,” he says, and then he is shaking his head—but his eyes are dancing. “The Thieves Guild stole my bride gifts, gave them to the city, locked us in a closet, and, what, you were about to steal our _entire wedding ceremony?_ ”

“You have the right of it,” Zeira acknowledges, then, challenging: “Will you have us in the dungeons?”

Instead of answering, he rubs his chin and looks to Narahni and Velsa. “You were the ones to marry in our place?”

Before Velsa can speak, Narahni curtsies and says, a little defensively, “This one did not know what her Velsa was planning, but it is a _marvelous_ display of her love for Narahni.” Velsa’s heart swells— _I can only hope to be worthy of your trust in me—_

“How long have you two been together?” Azah asks.

“It is a long story, my lord,” Velsa jumps in. “But we have loved each other for many, many years—both when we were parted, and all the more when we found each other again.”

Azah gives a decisive little nod, even as Falorah steps forward to protest. “Then it is only right that you finally be wed.” He steps into the place of the officiant and holds out his hands to theirs. “If I might be permitted the honor?”

Behind him, Zeira and Falorah’s mouth have fallen open in identical amazement. Quen is pressing her fingers to her mouth to keep from squealing; Tashmin presses his paws to his chest in delight. And, from below, rises a cheer like a wave.

 _Falorah has chosen better than she knows, this time—_ comes the fleeting thought. But then Narahni is clasping her hands, and kissing her sweetly, and Velsa can only think, _my love._

 _My wife_.

*****

 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays, furiosity!! I hope you've been able to play the New Life Festival this year. If not, I'll save some extra goodies for you for after reveals ;)
> 
> When I got the prompt, I thought, "Thieves Guild==LEVERAGE." So this is my attempt to write a heist, with Zeira and Velsa switching off as Nate, and Quen as Parker. Not 100% sure who maps onto Eliot, Hardison, or Sophie, but it's kind of amusing to imagine Walks-Softly as the Sophie of the team, I think! 
> 
> TES-related notes: Silasson [sort of exists](http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Morrowind:Silasson#Silasson). Gold kanet + stoneflower petals = drain luck (and, amusingly, restore strength, but Azah didn't need that.) And the [Gourmet](http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Skyrim:Gourmet)\--well, I figured that could be a longstanding Tamrielic tradition :)
> 
> Thanks to [meledea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/meledea/pseuds/meledea) for the beta!


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